This plain clothes man moved from place to place with a speed and certainty that spoke of his long years of practice in this sort of work.
"There's nothing left but the trunk, now," declared the policeman, bending over and trying the lock.

"The key to this, Prescott!" Dick produced the key.

Hemingway fitted it in the lock, throwing up the lid.

The trunk was but half filled, mostly with odds and ends, for Dick was not a boy of many possessions.

After a few moments the policeman deftly produced, from the bottom, a gold watch.